


Rescue

by Dien



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Dogs, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dien/pseuds/Dien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a short snipped I wanted after 'Masquerade'. </p><p>(Includes description of a panic attack.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rescue

He can't breathe. 

When he was nine, his brothers decided he needed to learn to swim and they threw him into the deep end of the pool. He remembers the water closing over his head, the way it dragged at his shirt and shoes, the lack of air, the lack of air, the lack of air.

Somehow, then, he surfaced, limbs thrashing until some sort of buoyancy was achieved. 

That was then. This is now. There is no air and he cannot move.

Motion and sound. Car horns. It's New York; a red car blurs past and the driver yells _Out of the street, asshole!_ A bus rumbles by behind him in a roar of engine and exhaust fumes, enormous presence, wind of its passage plucking at his suit. 

_Move_ , he tells his legs, the good and bad one both. Move. Get back onto the sidewalk. 

His legs do not listen. His right hand throbs beneath the bandage and everywhere, any of these people, could be her or in her pay and he doesn't know which direction is safe, can't even remember which way is back to the library. His brain's as uncooperative as his legs.

 _How thin the line that separates rational man, with his silly belief in order and logic, from this cringing senseless animal that can't even manage fight-or-flight right now,_ he would think if he could, he may think later.

Drowning. He knows no other word. His mind spins uselessly, disengaged from its gears, seeking some traction and finding nothing, while his heart bang-bang-bangs in his ribcage and his throat constricts which further limits his air intake and now there's even less oxygen to reach his brain and his lips are numb, cold... He sees himself as if from a distance, sees himself as his Machine might: a man in a suit standing frozen and rooted to the crosswalk, waiting to die.

Something wet and cold touches his palm and the sensory input jerks at his brain like a fish on the line. One mental gear re-engages. It's not much, but it's everything. He hears his own gasps for breath and is suddenly back behind his own eyes, staring wildly down for the source of contact.

The dog. The dog's nose, against his fingers. He finds the dog's eyes with his own panicked ones: brown eyes, deep and calm as a river.

Bear turns once he has Finch's attention and tugs back towards the sidewalk. The pressure from the leash on his hand does what his own brain couldn't: gets his legs to move. Small, shuffling steps that take him back to the days in the hospital, to recovery and therapy, but even the hospital is better than being underwater.

Bear's leash is a life preserver and he clings to it all the way back to shore.

“Hey buddy, you okay?” someone asks but he couldn't even say who. Faces swim past him, but it's okay, it's okay, he's back on the sidewalk now, making his strides lengthen and move until the crosswalk is left behind them. Bear trots along, steady and sure, and when they round the corner Finch has to stop. Bear stops when he does, and when Finch drops ginger and trembling to his knees Bear seems to understand exactly what is needed of him. Bear stays close, lets Finch bury his face and shaking fingers into the thick brindle fur of his neck. 

He breathes in reality and rescue and safety, which smell right now of dog.

“Good boy,” Finch hears himself whisper, over and over. _Good boy, good boy, good boy_ , hands patting compulsively now at furry flank and strong muzzle, and Bear licks at his fingers.


End file.
